


The Most Human

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Such Horrible Things [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Swaplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks to Mary Morstan's blog, Molly Hooper is edging closer and closer to the status of reluctant celebrity. Waiting in the wings, however, is Sherlock Holmes, a man Molly has struggled to forget. A man with whom she shares an attraction that could prove to test her resolve and the lengths in which she will go to protect the people she loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Human

**Author's Note:**

> *breathes* Okay, so. This was inspired by **rebeltimedork** on Tumblr, where she asked me to write a continuation of my Swaplock TGG AU, "Confrontation", and said continuation basically took over my life and my mind until it grew into the long, long one-shot you see here.
> 
> The basic premise is that Molly is the consulting detective, Sherlock is the consulting criminal, and Mary is the ex-army doctor turned blogger. I highly suggest reading "Confrontation" before reading this, as it acts as a sort of prequel of sorts, setting up the dynamic between the characters, and it provides a little bit of backstory as well.
> 
> Other than that, on with the show. Or fic.

With a shivering breath, Molly stepped onto the ledge. The wind whipped around her. Tendrils of her hair moved with it, flipping around and in front of her face. She swallowed.

"So this is it." Slowly, she glanced back at the man stood a short distance away. "The final problem."

The lapels of his coat fluttered slightly as he grinned and moved forward. He peeked over the ledge.

"Oh," he murmured. "It is rather high isn't it?"

His hand hovered at the small of her back, and her breath caught. She could feel his smile, sinful and playful in equal measure.

"Yet you've always been fond of extreme pleasures. Haven't you, Miss Hooper? The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins..." He chuckled. "Blood is such a nicer word than heroin."

She breathed through her nose and watched the street below. In the corner of her eye, just beyond the ambulance station, a taxi entered the scene. Her heart plummeted. No, not Mary... not here... not now…

"Well, time to start playing the fiddle I think," Sherlock said mock-sweetly, his hand pressing harder against her back. "Rome is burning."

Molly watched the blonde-haired woman she had come to know and trust with her life stumble out of the taxi and onto the pavement. It was almost funny; she had trusted Mary so deeply and so sincerely, she hadn't ever stopped to consider that it was that same trust which would precipitate her downfall.

In fact, it _was_ funny. Very funny.

A giggle burst from her mouth. She heard her consulting criminal whip around.

"What? What is it?"

His questions were ignored. Molly Hooper continued to laugh.

* * *

**BOFFIN MOLLY HOOPER SOLVES ANOTHER CASE**

" _Boffin?_ "

Molly scoffed as she tossed the newspaper onto the table. Bloody tabloids. Toby wound around her legs and she picked him with one hand, the deerstalker that plagued her in the other.

"I'm a consulting detective with genius intellect and yet they go for boffin?"

"It's quick and to the point," Mary said with a gentle sigh and she picked up the discarded newspaper. "Tabloid nicknames are all the same; I'm sure I'll get one soon enough, being your blogger and all."

"You already have—page five, column six, first sentence," Molly said, suppressing a laugh as she flipped the hat into the air before deftly catching it again. "Why is always the hat photograph?"

"Mary Morstan, never married—never married! What's that supposed to mean?"

"My hair looks awful in that picture—they could've at least let me brush it," Molly muttered, flipping the hat onto her head and glancing in the mirror. "What sort of hat is this anyway?"

"Honestly. 'Never married.' So I'm single, what's so wrong with that?"

Still focused on her reflection, Molly looked to Toby. "Do you know, hm? Perhaps it's a cap—a two-fronted cap maybe?"

"It's a deerstalker," Mary said quickly as she scanned the rest of the article. She jabbed at one particularly offending sentence. "Miss Morstan, who is yet to marry, can often be seen in the presence of Miss Hooper..."

"Deerstalker?" Molly looked back at her reflection once more and took the hat from her head, frowning. "Stupid name. What do you do, do you stalk a deer with it? Who does that?"

Indignant at the lack of attention being given to him by his mistress, Toby mewled and leaped from Molly's arms onto her chair, where he proceeded to make himself very comfortable. Molly however, continued to examine the hat in her hands, twisting it and turning it over between her fingers.

"Wait a minute! It's—it's a bloody ear hat! Mary, it's an ear hat!"

"Yes, and I'm apparently going to be forever single." Mary finally tore her gaze away from the newspaper to stare at Molly. "We have got to be more careful."

Molly scoffed and impolitely pushed Toby off of her chair before sitting down. Even more offended than before, Toby scuttled off in the direction of her bedroom. Molly watched him leave with an amused smile on her face.

"Hello!" Mary said, giving a little wave. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Of course I am. And what do you mean? We're always careful."

"I mean, that isn't just a deerstalker hat anymore; it's a Molly Hooper hat. People buy those to look like you. Do you see? You're not exactly a private detective anymore."

Molly gave a shrug as she curled her legs underneath herself. "It'll pass. There's no need to worry."

"It had better," Mary said, standing up. "I'm off to make a cup of coffee. Want one?"

She didn't stop to hear Molly's answer.

"It really bothers you," Molly said after a moment, tilting her head at her friend.

"Of course it does!" Mary replied, spooning two teaspoons of coffee into a mug as she waited for the kettle to boil.

"Why?"

Mary leaned against the kitchen counter. The kettle whistled. "Because – well, because the press turn. It's what they do; they'll turn, and they'll turn on you."

If this statement affected Molly in any way, she gave no impression of it. Instead, she shook her head and got to her feet. "No they won't. They'll forget about me, but they won't turn."

Mary considered arguing with her friend, but quickly decided against it. Molly was many things, but she was far from a listener. She was an observer, yes, but if there was one thing she could never deduce, it was herself.

"Whatever," Mary said finally, as she slowly stirred her coffee. "Just keep a low profile. Only little cases this week."

"Little cases are boring though."

"They may be boring, but they at least keep you out of the news."

* * *

_Friday, 11:00am._

The first thing Mary heard when she stepped out of the bathroom was the familiar trill of a text alert.

"Someone's texted you," she called over her shoulder as she moved towards and settled into her armchair. Molly, situated—as ever when there were no cases to solve—at her microscope, shrugged with disinterest.

"Think maybe you should answer it?" Mary asked, flicking nonchalantly through a magazine until her attention settled itself on a not very interesting article about 10 ways to please a man (all rubbish, she'd tried them and none of them had worked). The trill sounded again, and Molly gave out a heavy sigh, impatiently scooping her hair back from her face.

"Honestly, what is so important that Henry Fishgard has to wait?"

It was at this point that Mary finally registered the well-suited mannequin hanging from the kitchen door.

"A pressing case(!) Where'd you get the suit from?"

"Tailor on Savile Row owed me a favour once," Molly said swiftly as she picked up her phone and scrolled through the messages. "Took him up on it when I was bor—"

She never finished her sentence. Her face drained of colour.

"Molly?" Mary asked, putting the magazine to one side. "Is everything okay?"

Stepping back, Molly sank slowly into her armchair, her eyes fixed on the mobile screen. She only moved when Mary repeated her name, and even then, the only movements she made were to slip her phone into Mary's palm.

"Oh God." Those were the only words to come from Mary's mouth. The reaction was understandable.

 _I'm bored. Why don't you come and play?_  
_Tower Hill._  
_– SH_

* * *

Their journey to Tower Hill was swift, and soon they were greeted by a worried-looking Donovan, who said nothing but immediately led them into the security room.

"We found him sitting on the throne of all places," Donovan said as a young policeman wound back through the footage. The images played in reverse: his arrest, his settling himself on the throne as if he owned it, crown atop his head and chucking the orb lightly between his hands, the crashing of the glass casement—

That where it stopped and together, the three women watched closely as the lithe consulting criminal stuck gum onto the glass, picked up a fire extinguisher as it was nothing, twirled on his feet gracefully before he finally smashed at the bulletproof glass.

Donovan shook her head. "That glass is designed to withstand bombs."

"But not crystallised carbon," Molly said quickly. "He clearly used a diamond."

"Where would Sherlock Holmes get a diamond?"

"He's connected," Mary said bitterly as the footage continued to play. "Wait a minute! Reverse that."

The policeman duly did as he was told; only pausing when Mary commanded him to. She pointed to the screen, where a frozen Sherlock held the fire extinguisher over his head, preparing to bring it against the glass.

"See that?" Mary asked, pointing at the screen again. "The writing?"

Molly swallowed, but said nothing. She didn't need to—Sherlock Holmes had spelt it out well enough.

_GET HOOPER._

* * *

Of course the case went to trial. And of course the case was one of the most highly covered trials in media history. "Crime of the Century", they termed it. Headline after headline was printed, day after day, all scrabbling to update the general public on every tiny going-on of the case—especially when it was announced that a certain consulting detective was to be called up as an expert witness.

"Well," Molly said as she adjusted the collar of her blouse and brushed herself down. The hustle and bustle of the paparazzi outside was hard to miss. "Hardly a little case this, is it?"

Mary smirked. "We've had worse. Ready?"

"Ready."

As soon as they opened the door, cameras flashed and microphones were shoved in their faces. Both Molly and Mary rushed through the crowd as policemen uselessly tried to push back at the journalists before they clambered into a waiting police car.

"Remember," Mary said as the car pulled away. "Just be yourself."

"Well, that'll be difficult. They did tell me not to be clever and to keep it simple."

Mary smiled amusedly. "Yeah, well. The police always are an ambitious lot."

Molly said nothing, but a breath of relief went through Mary when she saw a tiny smile flicker at the edges of her friend's mouth.

* * *

"A 'consulting criminal'," the barrister drawled. Molly nodded slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on the man speaking. In the dock, Sherlock Holmes stood, fitted in an elegant black suit.

The barrister glanced back at him briefly before looking back to Molly.

"Those were your words. Can you expand on your answer?"

"Yes." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "In basic terms, Sherlock Holmes is for hire. If you want a bomb planned or an assassination staged, he's pretty much your man."

Her eyes flicked towards him; the man was still smiling. Proud. He was proud.

Up in the gallery, Mary watched the scene unfold with bated breath. She hadn't missed anything so far. She hadn't missed the way in which her friend had taken a short breath before stepping onto the stand; she hadn't missed the way Sherlock Holmes' gaze never seemed to move from the stand, not even for a second; nor had she missed the nervous, rhythmic tapping of her friend's fingers against the wood.

Molly was nervous. Deathly nervous.

Perhaps the fact that she was nervous was the reason she turned on the judge and the jury in the manner that she did.

And perhaps that was why she was promptly arrested for being in contempt of court.

* * *

Molly kicked off her shoes and curled up on the cool, plastic mat the police dared to call bedding. She hadn't _meant_ to reveal two of the jurors were having an affair; nor had she meant to reveal that the two having said affair were married to other members of the jury. Yet reveal it she had.

She leaned her head against the tiled wall of the prison cell and fiddled subconsciously at her hair, fingering it delicately as she looped strands of it around her fingers.

A tapping, distant but audible, caused her to frown. Swinging herself up to a sitting position, she pressed her ear close to the tiled wall. The tapping continued.

–.– – – – – .. –

Morse code. She closed her eyes, her mind whirring. The sounds echoed in her head until it formed into a translation, the voice almost a whisper in her mind.

_You._

The tapping sounded again.

. –.. – – – – – – –.– . –..

_Looked..._

–.. . . –.. . –.–. – . – –... . –.. .

_Delectable..._

– – – – –.. . – –.– –

_Today._

The tapping ceased as quickly as it had started. Molly breathed a laugh. Her first thought was how stupid the police really were. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal in adjoining cells, with only a wall separating them. Talk about a coincidence.

Raising her hand, she tapped hard on the tiled wall.

... – – – / –.. .. –.. / –.– – – – – .. – . –.–.–

_So did you._

The reply she expected never came.

* * *

"Not bloody guilty," Mary fumed into her phone as she strode from the court and away from the dozens of reporters re-telling the shock verdict to their waiting audiences. "No defence, no witnesses, nothing! And he walks free!"

Back at 221b, with Toby curled up on her lap and her hair scooped back into a messy ponytail, Molly's fingers tightened around her phone. Mary continued to rant.

"Molly, you know this is bad, don't you? Of course you do. Listen, he's out. He'll be coming after you, you know that. Mol—"

Silent as the grave, Molly pocketed her phone and unfolded herself from the sofa. Her eyes latched onto her reflection. Slowly, she raised her hand and pulled at her ponytail, letting the waves of her hair flutter and rest over her shoulders and down her back. She headed into her bedroom. He would be coming after her, that part was true. Yet he wouldn't hurt her. No—that was for later. Now, this afternoon, was parlay; the peace before the declaration.

She was going into battle. It was only right that she was dressed accordingly.

* * *

By the time the door to 221b was opened, she was dressed neatly in a pair of trousers and a blouse and was sat, waiting, in her chair with a tray of tea set out beside her. He said nothing as he entered but only removed his coat and his scarf, folding them over his arm and draping them over the back of Mary's chair.

"Most people knock," she said smoothly, watching him. He settled into Mary's chair, a smirk on his lips.

"I'm not most people, as you know."

"The kettle's just boiled," Molly said, gesturing to the tray beside her. "Care for one?"

He shrugged. "Only if you're making it."

She smiled blankly and stood, bending over the table slightly as she tended to the tea. Behind her, she heard the rustle of clothing and footsteps as he stood. Swallowing thickly, she continued to play housewife. A splash of water, a thimble of milk; just as her mother had taught her. Strange—she had never thought such lessons would be applicable to her chosen career.

She felt his hands palm carefully at the edges of her waist.

"I presume you know of Bach."

She continued to serve the tea. "Of course I do."

He pressed her closer to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. Molly briefly wondered how far this particular game would go. Seeming to read her thoughts, he spoke. His breath was warm on her neck.

"He was on his death bed when he heard his son at the piano, playing a piece he had composed."

His right hand trailed slowly up her back before he sunk his fingers into her curls, nails scratching at her scalp, to gently pull her head back towards him. She swallowed thickly as he continued to murmur into her ear, his voice low.

"Would you like to know what happened next?"

"The boy stopped before he got to the end," Molly said softly, and she stepped away from him and around the table until they were directly opposite one another. Sherlock watched her with a wry smile.

"You know it. I suppose you know how it ends."

"I much prefer it when you tell it," Molly said quietly, moving her gaze towards him. If he wasn't going to cease this game between them, she wouldn't either. She smiled genially. "Sugar?"

He shook his head, the wry smile still on his lips.

"The dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."

Molly let herself continue to look at him. Her smile widened. "The sign of a genius—"

Her breath caught as Sherlock reached forward and took a hold of her waist again with his hand, his touch tender against her. This time, it was his smile that widened. Still keeping his hold on her waist, he stepped around the small table and moved towards her, stepping forward until he was looming over her.

His hands moved to the buttons of her blouse, his fingertips teasing at the very edges of them. "He could not cope with an unfinished melody."

He focused his gaze, searing as it was, on hers. There was lust there, but it wasn't affectionate. It was the lust of the predator, marking its prey.

"Could you, Miss Hooper?" His voice was soft, but raw. "Faced with an incomplete masterpiece… what would you do?"

He was marking her; the worst thing was, she wanted to let him. She wanted him. The thought thrilled her.

Her fingers dug into his collar. Logic, thought and anything else that might have prevented her following actions disappeared. As their mouths connected, it was only the prey hunting the predator. He tugged her closer; she pushed against him; they stumbled back. He spun them around; her back hit against the wall. A pause, but still no thought. Nothing to stop her. A laugh stuttered from her, free and light and he joined with her mirth, chuckling before he bent down to take her mouth again, and she let herself fall.

Pressing himself closer against the wall and her, his hands moved down to her blouse once again. This time, he easily popped open one button after the other, smiling as he continued to kiss at her, pressing his mouth against her lips, her jaw and her neck. She grasped at his hand, and before any comment could come from his mouth, she led him towards her bedroom.

Once there, she let go of his hand and shut the door, locking it. When she turned to look back at him, he was grinning.

"I'll give you three guesses."

"I only need one," she said quickly, stepping towards him and putting her hands on his chest before she unceremoniously shoved him onto the bed. His gaze scanned her greedily. She ripped her blouse off of her shoulders and threw it into some far corner of the room. He shifted back slightly, allowing her room to kneel on the bed, her legs either side of his lap. As she spoke, she worked at the buttons of his crisp shirt.

"Got to the jury. You used blackmail to gain an advantage; I presume it was through the televisions in their hotel bedrooms." She pressed an urgent, wanting kiss to his mouth before she sat up to remove her bra. "It was the only place they would be at the same time."

"Cable network," he said, shrugging off his shirt. "Easy. Simple."

Lost in the moment and her own fervour, she couldn't help but grin at his words and she began to slowly grind against him, not hiding the pleasure she felt at being able to feel the state of his arousal through his trousers.

"Boringly so. Anyone can hack into a cable network."

"That's _why_ it's so brilliant."

Using only a modicum of his strength, he almost lazily flipped them over and kissed at near her ear, chuckling darkly and he nipped lightly at her neck, eliciting a hiss from her.

His mouth continued to move down her body, biting and kissing at alternate points. A filthy moan flooded from her as he took her nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue expertly around the hardened nub. Her hands travelled towards his hair, but he quickly grasped at her wrists and pinned them above her head, directing a knowing smile at her.

"Shut up," she said, to which he raised an eyebrow.

"Not breathing a word."

Still keeping a tight hold on her wrists, he continued to travel down her body, dropping kisses on her breasts, her stomach, and her hips and in between her thighs. She hummed appreciatively at his ministrations, which soon gave way to a throaty moan as his mouth pressed against her cunt. Finally he released her wrists and her fingers immediately sunk into his curls as she hooked her legs around his shoulders as he continued to torture her with methodical licks and sucks. Soon enough, she began to arch against him and tiny mewls of appreciation tumbled from her lips, her hands falling away from him to grip at the sheets. Humming against her, he mercilessly continued to tease her with his tongue and bring her closer and closer to the brink.

The relief never came. The bastard drew away and rose to his feet, slowly crawling onto the bed, looming over her, leaving her as wet and as wanting and as needy as he wished her to be. In that moment, she had never hated him more.

"You..." she panted, aroused by her frustration and frustrated by her arousal, but he only continued to smirk and he drew his fingers against her chin and her jaw.

"I'm what?"

She reached forward and grabbed at his hair, drawing him closer to her. "You are going to do what you came here to do: you're going to fuck me."

He arched an eyebrow in amusement. "Am I now?"

"Don't pretend otherwise."

"Why would I do that?" he said, his eyes twinkling devilishly. Standing up again, he removed his trousers and kicked them aside, moving back to the bed. Molly was spitefully pleased to see that he was just as aroused as she was, and she dragged him down to meet her mouth, still not letting herself think about what she had done and said so far.

Pressing his forehead against hers, he clawed and touched at her skin greedily as she lifted her hips up, letting him guide himself into her, and she hissed at the sensation, letting her gaze lock onto his icy-blue eyes, which were now delirious with ecstasy. Another surge of spiteful pleasure burned through her and she locked her thighs around his waist, pulling him closer towards her.

An errant curl fell onto his forehead, and she reached up, brushing it back, letting her hand cup against his cheek. His eyes burned brighter.

"This is what you wanted, Miss Hooper."

"I know," she murmured and reached up to still his words and her thoughts with a deep kiss. "I know."

* * *

She lay on her stomach, the bed sheets pooled around her and her hair fanned out against the pillow where she rested her head. Whereas once she had blocked out all thought, they now flooded her and suppressed her into silence.

She was still staring at the wall when she heard the low creak of the mattress as behind her, Sherlock raised himself up to a sitting position and propped himself up on his elbows. With one hand, he idly began to trace patterns against her back. She stiffened at his touch, and he briefly squeezed at her shoulder before he continued to outline shapes at the top and the small of her back.

"So how are you going to do it?" she asked quietly. "How are you going to... burn me?"

She heard him chuckle softly. When he spoke, his tone was one of mild amusement. "I'd think that was quite obvious."

His fingers trailed up to the top of her back and he traced three more shapes into her skin, muttering under his breath as he did so.

"I... O... U."

He took a breath and with a heavy heart, she listened to the slight creak of the bed as he rolled away from her to lie on his back.

"I suppose that's it," he said with a slight, melancholic sigh. She turned her head to see that he was now looking at her. "Our problem."

"The final problem," she murmured, reaching up to scoop her hair away from her eyes. He stilled her with his fingers, clasping tightly around her wrist. She felt her eyes widen as he gently let go of her wrist and brushed the few tendrils of hair away from her eyes, only stopping to cup at her cheek.

"It must hurt you. To say that you don't know."

His statement picked at her. Pulling her head away from him, she rolled away from him and tucked herself under the covers. She bit back a shiver as his fingers began to trace against her back again, his nails digging deeply into her skin.

"Well, Miss Hooper? Does it?"

Words, whispered to her in the heat of their lovemaking, echoed in her ears once more. _I didn't steal anything because I didn't need to._ He'd told her, of his plans, of everything; all to tease her. Frustrate her.

Finally, she spoke. "I don't know."

Her words were followed by a chuckle, and she heard the rustle of the sheets as he moved closer to her, his arm coming to wrap itself around the lower part of her stomach, his fingers tapping out a light rhythm against her skin.

"Clever Molly." He kissed at her shoulder. "But whilst we're on that subject... I assume you haven't told your friends yet."

She burrowed further into the sheets. "We've been over this. Or do you forget that quickly?"

He arched an eyebrow and pressed a tender kiss to her mouth, a kiss which was too warm to be comfortable or forgettable.

"I won't insult your intelligence by lying to you. The fall is starting, Miss Hooper." The beginnings of a smile traced against his lips. "It already has started, in a way. You had best be prepared."

She held his gaze for as long as she possibly could. "I've never liked riddles."

"Now I know you're lying. Riddles are just another puzzle, Molly. And you just adore puzzles, don't you?"

At this, Molly finally turned away from him. She curled up tighter underneath the duvet and listened as he gave a sigh and moved off the bed, dressed and left. With every step, she curled tighter and tighter into herself. It wasn't until she heard the distant slam of 221b that she allowed herself to breathe.

* * *

 **SHERLOCK WALKS FREE**  
_Shock verdict at Old Bailey trial_

**Shock verdict at trial**

**HOW WAS HE EVER ACQUITTED?**

**Sherlock vanishes  
** _What Next for the Reichenbach Heroine?_

* * *

For two months, the headlines had screamed about Sherlock's dismissal from court and his 'vanishing act'. For two months, Molly said not one word. After Mary had found her, naked and burrowed underneath the duvet covers, she had not breathed a word about Sherlock Holmes. She tracked him of course. Daily, the wall was covered with yet more leads, more newspaper clippings, more photographs and more scribbles of hurried thoughts and desperate solutions. If Mary Morstan didn't know any better, she might've said that Molly was merely dedicated to her work. The problem was, she did know better. She knew that her friend was nursing a broken heart.

That was perhaps why she was so annoyed to be summoned so abruptly, and it was perhaps that which led her to slamming the door behind her as she stormed into the underground office of Anthea Hooper.

Anthea, sat at her desk, however did not look up, but instead held out several manila-coloured folders. Scowling, Mary sat down and opened the first folder, only to be greeted by a photograph of a burly looking male.

"Sulejmani," Anthea said simply. "Albanian hit squad, expertly trained. He now lives less than twenty feet from you."

Mary flipped open the second folder.

"Dyachenko, Ludmila," she read out slowly. Anthea nodded.

"Russian killer. She's recently taken possession of the flat opposite."

Mary quickly shut the folder and looked straight at Anthea, tilting her head.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm sensing a pattern."

"Look in the rest. Five other top international assassins have relocated to within spitting distance of 221b Baker Street."

"Well," Mary said with a sigh. "I am definitely moving. Know any good areas?"

"If you could take this a _little_ more seriously, Miss Morstan—"

"I'm taking this perfectly seriously. A whole group of assassins are waiting outside my door to strike at any moment's notice. It isn't hard to guess who's behind it."

Anthea gave a small sigh and brushed her fingers through her hair. "Sherlock. Of course. He did say he'd be coming back."

"Always nice to meet a man who keeps his word." Mary shrugged. "Guess it's just a pity that man is also a raging psychopath."

"How is Molly?"

"Not good, obviously. I doubt she'll be any happier when I inform her that we've become a cul-de-sac for assassins," Mary said faux-brightly as she tucked the folders under her arm and stood to leave.

"You're going to tell her?"

Mary gave a short laugh. "What else can I do? I don't see you lifting a finger to help her. Christ. Anthea, she's your sister."

"Yes she is. And you're going to watch out for her, Miss Morstan." Anthea smiled thinly, the threat in her voice wildly obvious. "If it's not too much trouble."

Mary returned a similarly thin smile. "Not at all."

* * *

On returning back to Baker Street, Mary found that Molly was situated in the middle of the room, Toby was curled up beside her and her eyes were fixed onto the wall, trance-like in their intensity. In front of her was a thick brown envelope with a wax seal, already ripped. Beside that was a small clear bag filled with breadcrumbs.

"It came while you were out," Molly said, not turning her gaze away from the wall. "How is my sister, by the way?"

Mary didn't hesitate. Stepping forward, she crouched in front of Molly and dropped the seven heavy folders into her lap. Finally, Molly's gaze slowly moved away from the wall, bending down to look at the folders.

"We have currently a hive of assassins watching us. Seven of them, to be exact. And guess who they've all got connections with?"

His voice came from her mouth in a whisper. "Sherlock Holmes."

"You know what this means, don't you?"

"I do," Molly said with a nod. A hint of a smile appeared, and her eyes brightened.

"The game's begun."

* * *

Their next case turned out to be a kidnapping. Two children abducted from a prestigious boarding school, without any signs of a break-in. Molly solved the case within a couple of days. The signs had all been there, she claimed; the use of linseed oil by the boy to give them a trail, the combination of brick dust, asphalt, chalk, and PGPR and rhododendron ponticum. Everything had led them to the disused sweet factory in Addlestone, where they had found the two children, dirty and ill and traumatised.

Really, it was like any other case—up until the point where the little girl had screamed at the first sight of Molly. That had been the tipping point, for Molly at least.

Hurrying out of the police station with a confused Mary following on behind, she jumped into the first cab she came across, threw a cutting remark over her shoulder at Mary and settled back into the seat, her hand twitching nervously at her cheek. An advert for jewellery played on the monitor, but she paid no attention to it. She was a step behind; she knew that. Just the idea of not having the information irritated her. It unnerved her. Of course it unnerved her; it wasn't a game if there weren't some weaknesses on either side. She supposed that was the problem, for where she held all the disadvantages, he held all the advantages.

"Hello."

She jumped at the sound, and for one brief, maddening moment, she had thought him sat beside her. The monitor in front of her flickered, and sharp blue eyes stared back at her. His smile was wide.

"Are you ready for the story, Miss Hooper?" he asked softly. The screen flickered again, but only momentarily. His stare remained.

"This is the story of Princess Boast-a-Lot. Princess Boast-a-Lot was the bravest and cleverest princess in the entire kingdom."

It wasn't hard to guess who he really meant. Her breathing grew hard as she continued to watch him, her knuckles white as she clasped tightly at the leather of the seat. Sherlock's image continued to speak, his smile growing with his mirth. His voice took on a gentler tone, as if it were a child he was speaking too.

"But soon, the lords and the ladies of the court began to grow tired of all her stories of how very clever she was and how many battles she had won and after a time, all the lords and ladies began to wonder… are Princess Boast-a-Lot's stories even _true_?"

She could see it now; see them. Lestrade, examining pieces of evidence.

_You got all that from a footprint? Bloody amazing if you ask me._

Anderson, asking him what was wrong.

The story continued. Sherlock's voice grew content in its maliciousness.

"So one of the lords went to Lady Guinevere and although it hurt him to say so, he said 'I don't believe Princess Boast-a-Lot's stories. She's just a liar who makes things up to make herself look good in front of all the people in the kingdom.'"

Molly sank her head into her hands as more images—Donovan doubting, Mary questioning—filled her mind.

"And then even the Queen herself began to wonder – began to think… But of course, that isn't the end of Princess Boast-a-Lot's problems." Molly raised her head to see that the image was still, and Sherlock no longer smiled. Pity was all that could be seen in his expression. It was almost as if he regretted what he was about to do.

"Princess Boast-a-Lot," he said, "has one final problem to solve."

The monitor flickered once more, and finally died.

"Stop the cab," Molly yelled quickly, grabbing at the door when the driver ignored her. "Stop the cab or I will jump out!"

He immediately came to a stop, but when he turned to face her, Molly stilled in her panic. Sherlock grinned.

"You don't want to do that – wouldn't want to cause yourself an injury."

A short, painful gasp escaped Molly's throat and she could feel him watch, gleeful, as she scrabbled out of the taxi, and towards the driver's door.

"What was that? What have you done?"

His only answer was to reach forward, cup at her neck, pull her towards him and press a hard kiss to her mouth. When he pulled away from her, his grin had widened and the malice had returned.

"No charge," he said brightly as he began to pull away. Molly helplessly scrabbled to keep him back, but he had soon sped away and she was left to simply stare at the retreating taxi.

A new voice, male and accented, sounded. "Look out!"

Molly turned, only to see a man of burly build running towards her. Before she could register his face or what was going on, the man had grabbed her by the arm and tugged out of the road and onto the street. Barely a second later, a car speeded past them, uncaring of who or what got in its way. Catching her breath, Molly blinked and looked to her rescuer. Now she had time to recognise his features, she knew him immediately to be Sulejmani.

"Thank you," she said softly, and she stretched out a hand. Hesitantly, Sulejmani took it. One after the other, three bullets embedded into his chest, source of the gunfire unknown, and he crumpled to the ground. Molly stumbled back, shock overtaking all sense. The sound of ambulance sirens echoed in the distance.

Molly wasted no time. She turned on her heel and she ran for Baker Street.

* * *

Mary had found Molly in Baker Street, sat in her armchair with Toby in her lap. Her facade was that of coolness and calm. When Mary asked her what was wrong, she didn't answer but instead rose to her feet and wandered towards the bathroom.

When she returned a few minutes later, she calmly told Mary that she had witnessed a man being shot to death in the street.

"What?!" Mary spluttered. "How did you—?"

"He died because I shook his hand."

"Wait a minute. Backtrack. Explain everything."

Molly buried her face in her hands, but the whole story soon came tumbling out. Mary listened, both enraptured and ever so slightly terrified by what she heard.

"I've got something they want—" Molly said, chewing a little at the tip of her thumb. "All of them. They or their employers are in competition for it; they must be, or otherwise they wouldn't keep me alive." She gave a slight scoff of a laugh. "How very Sherlock Holmes. Sends seven assassins to my door in order for them _not_ to kill me."

"Talk about overprotective," Mary muttered as Molly stood and moved over to her laptop, typing rapidly at the keyboard, her mouth moving as fast as her fingers.

"All the attention—all the protection—is focused on me. I mean, look: surveillance, from every single flat where there's an assassin. It's a web."

"But why? What have you got that's so valuable?"

Molly gave a shrug. "Number of things I guess. Map, a key—no. Wait." She stopped, blinking as her thoughts raced. She slammed her palms against the table as she shot to her feet. "I'm an idiot—that something valuable?"

"The thing that's keeping you alive, yes. What is it?"

"It is a key, but more importantly, it's a code. A binary—" She paused again, her eyes flicking towards the door. The tell-tale blue light of a police siren flashed irregularly through the window.

"Oh God," Mary breathed. "What are they doing here?"

"The game," Molly said quickly. "You see, Sherlock is smart. The girl screaming was a trigger—no, not a trigger. It was a seed. He's planted an idea in their heads, and now it's taking root, it's—"

Mary watched as Molly continued to babble and ramble, tripping over her tongue to get the words out, flicking backwards and forwards between thoughts. She sighed heavily and stepped forward. It was clear enough what was happening. Molly Hooper, great consulting detective, was panicking. Quickly, she grasped at her friend's wrists and whirled her around to face her.

"Molly, stop. Think, actually think. What is this game _about_?"

Molly's face paled. "I-I don't – know. I don't know."

The sound of footsteps thundered up the stairs and into the flat, causing the both of them to turn. Mary watched, aghast as handcuffs were snapped against Molly's wrists by a policeman, accompanied by the sound of Sally Donovan's voice, hollow and reluctant.

"Molly Hooper, I am arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Molly only gave a nod before she was swiftly led from the room. A man, short with thick framed glasses and a demeanour which screamed "bureaucrat", stepped forward, a sneer etched onto his face. Mary already felt her fist clench.

"I hope you've learned your lesson Donovan. The police don't consult amateurs. Saw her coming downstairs. She looked a bit weird if you ask me. Bit like a freak." He sniffed slightly, glancing around the living room. "Vigilante types often are."

Mary flushed red. It wasn't very often that she got angry or that she felt her blood pump in her ears, and she had held her cool for most of the evening. It was just unfortunate that her rage was to be aimed at the Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard.

"Mary..." Donovan said warningly, but it was too late. Mary's fist had already come into contact with the Chief Superintendent's nose.

The night's events only snowballed from there.

In fact, they spun so out of control, that by the end, Mary began to wonder if she had truly gone insane.

* * *

**HOOPER'S A FAKE!**

_"She invented all the crimes!"_

She flicked through the papers quicker and quicker, the words becoming meaningless blurs. Words reverberated in her ears, panicked in speech.

"Please, I'm sorry—"

Mary choked out a laugh and shook her head. "No. No! This man is _not_ an actor, he is Sherlock Holmes!"

" _There is no Sherlock Holmes_ ," Kitty repeated as Mary began to pace. "He's an actor, paid by Molly Hooper to be Sherlock Holmes. She invented him, Dr Morstan. She lied to you."

Mary shook her head again and whipped around, glaring at the man stood before her. Sherlock—or Richard, whatever he claimed to be—chewed nervously at his bottom lip as he raked one hand through his uncharacteristically messy curls. His eyes flicked nervously between the three women before it settled back onto Mary.

"Dr Morstan, please, I know—I know you're a good person. Please… you wouldn't hurt me."

"You are not Richard Brook!" Mary snapped, before she turned back to Kitty, who wore a sickeningly pleased look on her face. "He's Sherlock Holmes! He isn't an actor! He was going to blow me up!"

Sherlock backed against the wall, running his hands over his face. His eyes were damp when he looked to her again.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I am an actor, I promise. I was out of work—"

Mary briefly closed her eyes, steeling herself before she turned to her friend.

"Molly, are you going to say anything? Please, just explain what the hell is going on!"

Molly did nothing of the sort, but as soon as her friend had addressed her, she moved forward and directed a slap against Sherlock's cheek. Letting out a whimper of a cry, he stumbled back to clutch at the stairs for support.

"Stop it!" Molly cried. "Just _stop it!_ "

"Please," Sherlock murmured, sitting back on the steps and looking at her, his blue eyes wide and innocent as a newborn foal. "Just tell them, Molly. Please. You don't have to lie."

"It's not me that's lying," she spat. She stepped forward, her usually petite figure looming over the man before him. Neither said anything to each other.

Carefully and slowly, his breaths irregular and heavy, Sherlock rose to his feet, reaching out a hand to cup at Molly's cheek gently. His eyes flickered with a hint of malice, a brief slip of the mask, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. He drew his thumb against the bottom of her lip.

"I loved you so much…" he murmured, to which Mary blinked and Kitty grinned.

"Oh yes! Forgot to mention that! As well as paying Richard Brook to act as a criminal mastermind, go on trial and try and blow people up, she _slept_ with him as well!"

Kitty directed a moralistic look of triumph at Molly, who continued to glare at Sherlock as she drew away and got to her feet.

"Emotional abuse and a cover-up," Kitty continued. "It makes for a great story, let me tell you that."

"Yeah, it's a great expose, even though _none of it is true!_ " Mary snapped, throwing the papers in her hand to one side. Kitty scoffed, too wrapped in the lies she'd been fed to believe in anything either of the women in her flat had to say.

Still in his place on the stairs, Sherlock gazed at Molly, pleading and desperate. The final piece of the act.

"Tell them, Molls, _please._ You've got nothing left to lose. You can't prolong it."

A low growl emitted from Molly's throat and she moved towards him again. This time though, he was too quick for her. Throwing out a cry of "don't touch me!" he scrambled up the rest of the steps, clumsy in his attempt to escape. Molly leaped for him, but again he was too quick. Committed until the very end, he continued to throw protests and terrified cries of horror over his shoulder as both of the women chased him up the steps.

"Leave him alone!" Kitty yelled, but neither none of the three heard her. The sound of the bathroom door echoed as it was slammed in Molly's face, and though she opened it a split second later, all they found was an empty bathroom and an open window.

A second of silence, and Molly slumped against the doorway, her head in her hands. Slowly, she collapsed onto the floor. The sob that bled out of her broke Mary's heart a thousand times over.

Without a word or a sound, Mary stepped towards her and she knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Molly sank into her, clutching at her coat as her crying grew in intensity. Mary said nothing; she just let her cry. She had been holding onto so much for so long. For this to happen was an inescapable fate. Above her, she heard Kitty's scornful laughter.

"Serves you right. If you expect any sympathy from me after what you've done to that poor—"

What little patience Mary had left disappeared.

"GET OUT! Go and find your fountain of knowledge. I'm sure he's scurrying around somewhere."

Kitty's only reaction was to scoff, raise an eyebrow and descend the steps. Mary looked back to Molly and hugged her tighter to rub comfortingly at her arm.

"It's okay, it's alright…"

"I failed—" Molly choked out as she wiped at her eyes. "I played the game wrong. I let him destroy me."

Mary shook her head vigorously and squeezed at Molly's hand.

"Now you listen to me, okay? This isn't the end. We still have the computer code. We still have that. And anyway, if this is a game, then... then maybe you've got to let him win."

* * *

Much, much later, Molly stood in the lab of St. Bart's. Her phone, which had previously felt so light and nimble between her fingers, now felt heavy. Her thumb hovered over the screen, her gaze bored into and fixated on the words she was meant to send. Everything was planned out; the whole night had been spent figuring everything out. She couldn't let those hours go to waste. She could not.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she pressed her thumb against the screen, and only when she opened them again did she see the message already sent.

 _Come and play._  
St. Bart's rooftop.  
– MH

_P.S. I have something you might want back._

Molly sighed and pocketed her phone, just as Mary entered the lab, her own phone clamped tightly to her ear.

"Oh, God. Really? Christ. Yeah, I'll be there. Ten minutes."

Despite the urgency within her voice, her face was a picture of calm when she hung up. She smiled at Molly, the concern she felt for her friend poorly hidden.

"The call's come through. Claimed Mrs Hudson's been shot."

Molly couldn't help but laugh slightly. "Of course. That would appeal to your tendency to help, wouldn't it?"

Mary nodded, but she no longer smiled. Instead, her brows furrowed together, no longer bothering to hide her concern.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Molly said with a tight smile. "I've sent the text. There's no going back now."

"No going back," Mary echoed. That was the last thing she said before she headed out of the door.

The chime of Molly's phone sounded. She smiled as she scanned the text.

_Don't keep me waiting, Miss Hooper.  
– SH_

No going back indeed.

* * *

The air was colder than she believed it would be. Tinny-sounding music filled the air as she stepped onto the roof and shut the door behind her. A violin piece, it was one she recognised. _Partita No.1_ , Johann Sebastian Bach.

The man she had chased and tracked for over two months; the man whose life ran parallel to her own, stood at the ledge, his head bent as he gazed down at the street, his hands folded behind his back with his phone clasped between his fingers. His head turned sharply as he heard the _clang_ of the door and he grinned, his curls fluttering against the wind. The music came to a sudden pause.

"Lovely choice of venue," he said lightly, to which Molly shrugged and stuffed her hands in her coat pockets.

"I thought you'd appreciate the theatricality."

"Indeed I do." He turned his head to look back down at the street. He gave a sigh.

"So _small_ , aren't they? All wandering around without a care or thought in the world. Even if they do have a thought, it's usually gone by lunchtime. So dull. Ordinary. Much like you."

Molly remained silent, even though his words, vicious in their delivery and their truth, bit at her. Drawing her hands from her pockets, she carefully folded them behind her back as she continued to step forward.

"It was easy, in the end, to beat you. Boringly so."

She smirked at his echo of her own words, watching as he stepped away from the ledge and began to pace, his footsteps encircling closer and closer around her. She held his gaze, tapping her fingers rhythmically against the back of her hand. As his gaze flicked towards her hands and as his smile widened, so did hers.

"Hm. Clearly my little act didn't affect your intelligence."

"Richard Brook. Reichen Bach in German."

"Just a little joke darling." He paused and brushed her hair away from her ear, leaning close. "Did you enjoy my present?"

"Oh, your 'protection'. Must admit, it's not very often I find myself hosting seven assassins. All hunting for that binary code, the one that can break into any computer system—the one you locked inside my head."

"Knowledge is just as powerful as an idea."

He tucked his gloved hand underneath her chin and tilted her head up to look straight into his sharp blue eyes. The amusement was plain to see.

"It's only a pity that you're so ordinary. So… beatable."

She frowned. Beatable? He hadn't beaten her—he couldn't have. Gently, he cupped at her cheek and smoothly brushed his fingers through her hair before he leaned close towards her, only stopped when his breath was warm on her cheek.

"There is _no_ key, Miss Hooper."

The chill and force of the wind seemed to grow with every word that dripped from his mouth. Sherlock chuckled as he pressed his lips lightly against hers.

"A few lines of computer code that gives control to one man? How could that possibly be real? The digits mean nothing. Like everyone else, like every single one of my clients and every single one of those assassins… you were chasing after a dream."

"But—the Bank, the Tower, t-the—"

"Daylight robbery," Sherlock explained with a gleeful smile. "Along with a few willing participants of course."

Finally, he drew away from her and took a step back. Molly shivered; her skin was nothing but ice now. All those leads and all those solutions that had run around in her mind and never settled were meaningless. She had complicated it; looked for a problem where there was none. Her weakness, her one weakness, had been the one he had played on.

She had thought the prey had hunted the predator. Now it seemed it was a far more traditional form of pursuit; and she had fallen for it.

"I told you," Sherlock said brightly. "I said it."

" _But that's why it's so brilliant_ ," Molly recited, her voice hollow and soft as he continued to encircle her, his gait light and playful in triumph.

"Another sign of brilliance is when one knows to bow out of a game."

"Bow out?" she asked, even though his meaning was clear. Sherlock nodded once towards the ledge. Molly swallowed thickly.

"My suicide."

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud'," Sherlock said with a tone of undisguised contentment. He took a cigarette packet from his coat pocket, followed by a lighter. "I guess that's what the headlines will be. And the papers never lie to their public, do they?"

Molly stayed silent as Sherlock took a cigarette and put it between his lips, lighting it. When he proffered the packet to her, she shook her head.

"I don't smoke. Didn't want to cut down my life expectancy."

Sherlock grinned as he took a drag. "The sentiment is sweet. The irony is delicious."

Molly leaned forward. Now she wished she hadn't chosen such a tall building.

"I can still get rid of you," she said decisively, glancing towards Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow. She turned to fully face him. "I can still prove Richard Brook is a lie; I can prove that you created a false identity."

Sherlock shrugged, nonplussed by her threat. "Yes, you could, but dying is _far_ less effort. It would take you months to bring down Richard Brook, whereas here… Well, it's just one quick fall. It will be over before you know it."

Molly let out a soft laugh under her breath, and she shook her head, looking straight up at him. "You're insane. You have wasted your life on destroying me. What if I choose to say no?"

"Do you really think I wouldn't have thought of that? No, wait. You _hoped._ Honestly, for one who claims herself to be a machine, you're awfully sentimental."

Sherlock dropped his cigarette onto the concrete floor and deftly crushed underneath the heel of his shoe. The smile he directed at her was malicious.

"How about a little incentive? Miss Hooper, if you don't jump, then the people you deign to call your friends will die."

Molly paled. "Mary?"

"Not _just_ Mary."

"Donovan. Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock nodded, eyes sparking with his merriment.

"Three bullets; all fired at six hundred and eighty one miles per hour." He moved towards her again, around to her back, wrapping his arms around her waist to tuck his chin against her neck. "If you don't jump, you will have the blood of three victims on your hands."

"And only you can call them off."

"Mm-hm."

"And the only way you will call them off is if I kill myself – complete your story; and die in disgrace."

"Obviously," Sherlock murmured lowly, pressing a cold kiss to the skin of her neck. "I'm certainly not going to do it for you, Miss Hooper."

On the street below, activity was beginning to surge. People lined up at bus stops; bin men jumped off the end of their garbage truck and threw waiting plastic bags inside; cyclists sped down the bicycle paths, swearing loudly at any buses that happened to cross their way. Sherlock released one hand from her waist, only to clasp tightly at her shoulder.

"You have an audience now," he whispered. "Don't want to disappoint them."

It was with a heavy heart that she grasped tightly at the arm he still had around her waist and she tugged. Murmuring a small "well done" to her, he stepped back as she, with a shivering breath, stepped onto the ledge.

The final problem. Their final problem. Her final problem.

A problem she should never have had to solve.

* * *

Her laughter echoed against the cool windy air, drowning out Sherlock's indignant, angered questions. She turned and hopped delicately from the ledge as she moved towards the consulting criminal, who glared at her with a livid scowl as he watched her every move.

" _You're_ not going to do it?" she asked cheerfully. "So the killers can be called off! Clearly there's some kind of recall code – a word or a number – perhaps it's in German? Or perhaps it's Bach's birthday? He does seem to be playing a large part in this. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that I don't have to die! Not if I've got _you_ , anyhow."

"Do you really think you could make me stop the order? I'm a very determined man."

"And I'm a very desperate woman. Ergo, yes. I do think I can." She went on tiptoes and brushed a kiss at the edge of his earlobe. "And so do you."

Sherlock laughed; the sound was short and cruel. Before Molly could say anymore, he reached out and grabbed her by the wrists, spinning her around to press her close to him. His glare was vicious.

"You, your sister and all the King's men could not make me do a thing I did not wish to do."

"I'm not my sister," Molly bit out. "I am _you_ – I am prepared to do anything; to burn, to do what ordinary people won't do – even if it's just to stave off the boredom of a genius."

"You talk extraordinarily prettily, Miss Hooper, but you – I'm afraid – are on the side of the angels." He tugged her closer. "You. Are. Ordinary."

She had run before; she had averted his gaze, had instead chosen to burrow down and let him overwhelm her—let him intimidate her. She wouldn't let that happen a second time.

"I may be on the side of angels, Mr Holmes, but don't you dare think for one second that I am one of them."

His gaze flicked over her as he appraised and studied her. Eventually, his smile, ominous in his delight, widened. His grip around her wrists loosened and fell away.

"It seems I was wrong," he said with a soft tone of realisation. "Yes—you're _so far_ from ordinary, there's only one thing you _can_ be. Me. You… are me. It stands to reason then, that as long I am alive, you have a way out. A way to save your friends."

He brushed his thumb along the edge of her cheek and her jaw. The merriment in his eyes returned as he settled his eyes on her.

"Good luck with that."

She barely saw him bring the gun to his temple. The sound of the gunshot rang.

Tears spurted from her eyes as his body crumpled to the ground, blood pouring onto the concrete. The gun was still in his hand. His smile was still on his lips, ominous even in death.

Molly span away, her mind frantic. The snipers were probably already in position—they'd be waiting—waiting for the call, the order. The deaths would be swift, faster than she could blink. Molly counted them down in her head. Mrs Hudson. Donovan. _Mary._

Unless… unless she died.

* * *

The soft tone of the keypad sounded as she pressed at the digits she had long ago memorised and held the phone against her ear. The familiar sound of the ringing tone filled her eardrums, cut off only by the panicked voice of Mary Morstan.

"Hello?"

Molly swallowed thickly. This was good. It was the plan; it would work. She just had to make it real. "Mary."

She almost laughed at the way the blonde woman's head shot up, almost as if she had heard her not as if she were on a rooftop looking down at her but stood right beside her.

"Oh God, Molly."

"I-I can't come down," she said with a false laugh. "So I guess—I guess we'll just do it like this."

"Molly—"

"It's all true." The words spewed out of her like she was spitting poison. "Everything. Everything said about me, in the papers – I invented him. I invented Sherlock Holmes. I'm – I'm a fake, Mary."

"Christ, Molly, _shut up._ " Mary's voice shook. Whether it was with anger or fear or grief, she couldn't quite tell. "The first time we met, you knew all about my brother, remember? Harry? Harry Watson?"

"I researched you," Molly said, a fresh spurt of tears coming forth, quick and breathless. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, but the tears wouldn't stop. "I wanted to im-impress you. That's all it was – all it is. A magic trick."

"Please, just stop it. Just stop this, okay? You're not a fraud; _you're not a liar._ "

Another, softer, more brittle laugh burst forth from Molly's mouth. The tears fell faster.

"I only want you to do one thing for me. Please, please will you do this for me?"

"What do you want me to do? I'll come up, I'll help—"

"No – no. This phone call – it's, well, it's my note. My confession, in a way. To you; to Donovan and Mrs Hudson. To everyone and anyone who'll listen. I want people to know." She took one final look back at the corpse behind her. Her heart cracked. "Sherlock Holmes… was my own fabrication. I paid the actor Richard Brook to enact several crimes on my behalf—"

"No, this—"

"And to appear in court under the name of Sherlock Holmes under the promise that I would blackmail the jury into giving him a "Not Guilty" verdict. I did this with the intention of gaining a reputation as a person of superior intellect and as a way to benefit financially. That is the truth." She took a long, sobering breath.

"Goodbye Mary."

Her phone fell onto the concrete with a clatter. From below, she heard Mary—the woman who had entrusted her with her life—desperately scream out her name.

It was odd then, that when she did fall, she felt nothing but peace.

* * *

**SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS**

**SUPER-SLEUTH IS DEAD**

**_Fraudulent detective takes her own life_ **

* * *

_The press turn. It's what they do; they'll turn, and they'll turn on you._

Once a warning from a friend to a friend, it now served as a painful reminder. Every tabloid bore the same headlines now. They screamed of fraud, of deceit. Where they had celebrated the very name of Molly Hooper, they derided it. Editorials and columns spat out insults and lamented the tragedies of the families who would be unable to get their loved ones back. Mary wanted to rip and burn and destroy every one of those newspapers. She wanted to yell out that Molly Hooper was not a fraud and was not a liar, but a hero, a friend and most importantly of all, a person who _cared._

Yet she could not do that. All she could do was her duty.

The funeral itself was held on a Monday and it was a small affair. The only mourners were her and Mrs Hudson. The gravestone itself was made of smooth black marble, with the name of Molly Hooper carefully and delicately engraved in gold. No message, no epitaph, nothing. Only a name.

"I'm angry."

She said the words without meaning to, but Mrs Hudson—sweet and as unassuming as ever—only clucked her tongue sympathetically and squeezed at her arm.

"I understand. She made everyone feel that way, at one point or another."

Mary blinked back tears and swallowed the urge to tell her that wasn't quite how she meant it. Instead, she let Mrs Hudson ramble and rant, her voice trembling. Mary smiled and squeezed her hand.

"Don't worry. I'm not actually that angry. Just a bit… miffed, if anything."

Mrs Hudson smiled and blew into her tissue, her eyes wet. "I know. I'll leave you alone to, erm… you know."

Mary didn't watch her go. Instead, she squared her shoulders and gave a sigh and blinked back the tears that threatened to come. _You have to grieve for me._ She heard the voice, little and scared, whisper at the back of her mind. She was thrown back into 221b, into a night filled with heated discussions and frantic planning. _You have to make it real._

That was the problem. She didn't want it to be real.

"Christ," she breathed, wringing her hands. "I can't do this. Molly… I – crap. You… you once told me you weren't human; you weren't a hero. Well, you were wrong about that, that's for sure. This whole situation proves it, doesn't it? There were times though. Times when I thought maybe you were right; maybe you weren't human. That was wrong. _So_ wrong of me. Because you were the most human… human being I've ever known."

Mary swallowed. The lie stirred within her throat as it eased its way up to her tongue. The voice in her mind spoke again. _These words must be said. They must be exact._ She cleared her throat, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"No-one… no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, because, well – I was alone. So alone, and I owe you so much."

She was meant to walk away at that point. She was meant to turn back and let it be. Yet she found that she couldn't. Words tumbled from her, short and sharp in her demands.

"But just – just one more thing, Molly. One more miracle, if you like. Don't be dead." _Stay safe_ was her unspoken request. _Stay alive._ "Please."

With that, she straightened herself up, gave a short nod and turned to take a brisk walk down the path of the cemetery. She didn't know how long she would have to wait, nor did she know if her grief would ever become a reality, but she did have a crumb of something not many got: she had hope.

* * *

Carefully, almost methodically, he grinded the lit cigarette into the gravel with his heel. Dr Mary Morstan slowly ambled away from the dark marble gravestone that declared the death of Molly Hooper, fraudulent consulting detective, but he did not move. His gaze focused on the opposite side of the graveyard. There she stood, barely visible to anyone but him, her hair fluttering in the wind. Through the trees, she gave a small imperceptible nod before she turned away.

Sherlock Holmes gave a smile. He couldn't waste time. After all, he did have a consulting detective to catch.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story, and please don't forget to leave kudos or bookmark if you liked it, or perhaps leave a comment telling me what you thought!


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